I haven't yet realised the ease
With which the poet allows intimacies
To slip away into the welcoming
Embrace of the reader.

I am no wild Byron, sowing my seed
On all grounds, stony and fertile alike
(Though perhaps that is just as well
For posterity).

I have no cause, no plan, no scheme,
Nothing to fight for or even espouse:
A true postmodern product of a time
Lacking imagination.

A constant running commentary
On myself - a work which does the jobs
Of critics and academics alike -
They must surely be grateful.

So I sit and write myself a letter:
"Solipsism and self-absorbtion
Are a circular labyrinth
With no exit.

"Look outside.
- Sincerely, C. Treacy."

She had written this in her journal,
while she was still able to . . .

We were both 14.
I had to show him how to do it.

He had never been with
a girl before.

He barely had an hair yet, and
he was afraid to look at me.

He kissed with his lips
closed tight.

He came in an instant and
sprayed his ****** *** on my
deflowered cotton dress.

I later burned that dress
in the backyard barbecue and
saved the ashes
in a small cedar box.

Twelve years later
she would sprinkle those ashes
over her mother's grave,

a parting gift
for having played the game
so poorly.

I have all my best ideas
In the shower.
Perhaps I should just stay there
All day long.